


flickering light and the smell of wine

by bereft_of_frogs



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: (where the victim would rather die), Abuse of Authority, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Auction, Defiant Victim, Fuck Or Die, Gang Rape, Human Trafficking, Hurt Enjolras, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Oral Sex, Politically motivated rape, Post-Canon, Rape, Rape as a consequence of losing a battle, Sexual Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-18 23:52:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19345246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bereft_of_frogs/pseuds/bereft_of_frogs
Summary: Enjolras believes his life will end on the barricade. There is a sizeable part of him thatwantshis life to end on the barricade.It does not.





	flickering light and the smell of wine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kainosite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kainosite/gifts).



> Additional Warnings: obviously, as this being a fill for the 2019 Nonconathon, there is graphic sexual assault, but at the beginning there is also discussion of canon-typical violence, blood, and dead bodies. (No explicit character death.)

His knees scrape on the stone. His hands, palms already torn and bloody, slide over the rough surface, trying to keep his face from falling into the road.

The man at his back finishes deep inside him with a cry, slumping over his back. His palms and wrists ache with the effort of holding himself up.

“It’s my turn-”

“You’ve had yours, just because you’re young and can keep it up doesn’t mean you can cut the line.”

Their dispute is seemingly resolved without words, and another man grips his waist, thrusting inside with a groan. This one is gentler than the others had been, and he’s able to rise a little. The man’s cock drags over that spot inside him that stirs a certain type of arousal and makes his cock start to rise. Humiliated spots of heat rise in his face. This was not the first time he had been aroused during this long day, and each time his shame and humiliation had grown. He looks down at himself, his torn clothes, the blood streaked down his thighs and glances up, away from his own body. His heart stutters at the sight.

Enjolras had forgotten why he was studying the stones so intently. Before him lie corpses - dozens of them, already rotting in the heat of the June sun. There’s a sickly sweet smell of rot and the coppery tang of blood in the air, mingled with lingering gunpowder. At this distance and with the amount of blood, he cannot identify any of the bodies, but some of the clothing is perhaps familiar. His mind cannot cope with connecting the clothes to the people, and he lowers his head again.

The gentle man moans and spills inside him, running a soft hand up his side. Then he’s gone and there’s a rougher hand in his hair, keeping his head up.

“Face what you’ve started, you little rich upstart,” The next snarls. “I want you to _look_ at them, look at the mess you’ve made while I fuck you.” He tugs on his hair, the strands pulling and snapping. He forces his head up until his neck is straining, and then mounts him, driving in hard and fast.

Enjolras had fought like a snarling demon at first. It had been hours since they discovered him in the upper room of the cafe, ready to make his final stand and die. But their rage was greater than even his death could assuage. They had disarmed him, and though he had taunted them, hoped to lure them into a swift execution, they had merely held him fast. After a full day of fighting, no food and little water, Enjolras was weakened. And outnumbered. Though he did not truly understand what they meant to do until one looked at him with a fire burning in his eyes and began to tear at his clothes.

He had screamed and snarled and clawed. Spit insults and threats. Told them to kill him. They had not listened, had merely laughed in the face of his struggles. It had egged them on. The air in the cafe had grown thick with lust, filled with the sounds of their cackles, then their heavy, aroused breaths. The sound of rustling cloth as some got themselves off while two pinned him down as a third gripped his hips, lifted him up, and Enjolras felt a splitting pain.

That was hours ago. Hours and countless men. One had had the bright idea, once he was made docile by the pain and horror of repeated violation, of bringing him down from the cafe, into the street where they had lined up the bodies of the dead, students and soldiers alike. They cast him down to his hands and knees and continued taking turns having his body.

 

The sun is beginning to set when a few city police officers finally intervene. Enjolras finds he can no longer stop shaking.

“Enough,” One says. “You’ve had your fun. We want to return home to your families, and bringing this one in is the last thing in our way.”

“You’ve made him bleed enough.”

“Never enough! He slaughtered our brothers.”

“You’ve had your revenge. Now leave him to the courts.”

“We will bring him to the prefecture. Now go. Your commander awaits. It is near curfew.”

The arms holding him up suddenly let up. For the first time in hours he is not being touched. He nearly collapses to the stone.

One of the officers tosses him a coat. “It is far too big for you, but it will cover you well. Can you stand?”

Enjolras shrugs the coat over his shoulders and staggers to his feet. “I can stand. I would rather face my death on my feet.”

The officer rolls his eyes. Enjolras feels absurdly stung by the dismissal. “Dramatic. No, you are not for the firing squad. We are to take you to the prefecture.”

Enjolras grimaces. “I would rather-”

“And I would rather go home.” He makes a gesture at his fellows. “Seize him.” The other officers grab his arms and bind them behind his back with irons. As if he could have run. Every step sends a shoot of agony up his spine. He limps, half supported by the officers, as they drag him away.  


Gisquet is waiting, sitting at his desk. He’s scribbling something on a bit of paper, lit by dim candlelight, when the officers bring Enjolras in and shove him into a chair. He has to bite his lip against the pain that sitting causes.

“Go ahead, I’ve got him from here. You’re dismissed.” Gisquet says. The officers leave without another backwards glance. Gisquet just keeps scribbling at his paper, not even looking up. Minutes pass, and the pain fades a little. Enjolras just sits, waiting for something to happen, feeling burnt out like a flickering candle. His breath keeps catching in his throat in his odd way - it’s some time before he realizes it’s the edge of sobs. He grits his teeth and shifts in the chair.

He barely holds himself together, until Gisquet finally looks up.

“Apologies for the wait. Busy day.”

Enjolras chokes. “Busy day? You…how dare you?” His voice is rough, fury rising in him. “You sit safely behind a desk while your fellow man suffers-”

Gisquet rises, smiling patiently, and leans on the edge of the desk.

“You’ve got a fire in you, Enjolras. Yes, I know exactly who you are, the streets have been full of nothing but your name for weeks. The blond rebel with the angry blue eyes. You are as pretty as they say.”

Enjolras chuckles. “I see.”

“I think you and I could help each other.”

“Help?”

“Yes. You’re clearly a smart man. Bright, promising. Beautiful. From a good family. You have potential, Enjolras. You can be something.”

“And so, you just want to use me and I’m free to go? Is that it? Take your pleasure from my body like the others and give me the gift of my _potential?_ My freedom?”

“It’s not that simple, unfortunately. But your life will certainly be spared.”

“Good then. I don’t want it. My life, I don’t want it.”

“I am giving you an opportunity, one that most did not have.”

“I do not care.”

Gisquet sighs heavily. He seems wearied. Enjolras expects that he’s had a rather long few days and thinks to himself, good. If they could not have had their revolution, at least he had given the prefect a headache. “I understand your fire, your passion. But this is not the way. Sacrificing young lives is not the way to achieve all you wish.” The prefect levels his gaze on him. “You made a grave error these last days.”

“The National Guard made that abundantly clear.”

“Hm. Yes. They certainly drove that lesson home.” Enjolras flushes, shame a sick ball in his stomach. “I am not the National Guard, young man. This is not meant as a punishment.”

“Merely a transaction. I see.” Enjolras steadies his gaze. “I expected to die on the barricade for the republic, I care not for my life.”

“But perhaps your friend’s life?”

Enjolras stiffens. “My friends are dead.”

“No. Not all.” Gisquet rises from the desk and goes to the door. He leaves for a moment, and returns with a second guard and Combeferre, bound, gagged, and blindfolded. He stumbles on the step, turning his head blindly. Enjolras’s heart stops, breaks. “Perhaps if you don’t care for your own life…”

Enjolras feels cold. “You’re a monster.” Combeferre makes a choked noise of surprise at the sound of his voice.

“I’m not a monster,” Gisquet sighs. “I’m just a man. A reasonable man, a man who knows what he wants. And can make things happen for you too.” Enjolras doesn’t respond, shaking with quiet rage. “That’s the way things work.”

“They take their revenge, you take your pleasure. And that’s the way the world works?”

Gisquet shrugs. “I would certainly feel more inclined to help get charges dropped - for both you and your friend - _if_ I were in a good mood.” Enjolras spares one last glance at Combeferre - standing rigid with tension, head tilted up in defiance of the knife at his throat - and turns back to Gisquet.

He’s in the chair, his legs spread wide, the bulge already apparent in his trousers. “It is your choice.”

Enjolras wets his lips. “Why not just take me by force?”

“Like those brutes in the street? No, we’re more civilized than that, aren’t we?”

Without another look back at Combeferre, Enjolras drops to his knees and crawls forward. He can tell that was the right move by Gisquet’s heady breath. He undoes the prefect’s trousers, exposing his erection.

Enjolras is inexperienced. More than inexperienced. But he had enough glimpses in the shadows of seedy taverns, in bawdy pamphlets left lying around, to get started. He takes Gisquet’s stiff cock in his mouth, easing it deeper. Gisquet’s hands settle in his hair, nearly a caress as he gently sets a rhythm. The first time the head hits the back of his throat, and Enjolras chokes, Gisquet lets out a low moan. His fingers tangle in Enjolras’s hair, his hips jerk up.

His breath comes faster just as Enjolras starts to be unable to breathe. The pace picks up, Gisquet’s hands in his hair driving his cock down Enjolras’s throat. He finds it’s easier just to go limp, to detach from his body and let it happen.

Dark spots appear in his vision. His head spins. He’s close to a faint when something about Gisquet’s breath changes and then hot seed is spilling down his throat. Gisquet lets him go, to fall to the side, coughing and gasping for air.

“I will do what I can,” Gisquet’s voice is breathy, still gasping. “Your lives will be spared. I cannot say for certain about the charges, but I will do my best.”

 

They are dragged into the basement, locked in cells side by side. The walls of their cells are bars, the floor covered with straw. There is a single barred window, high on the wall. It is dark outside now. The guards unlock their chains and leave them alone.

With shaking hands, Combeferre removes the gag and blindfold himself. He squints into the darkness.

“Enjolras? Are you-?”

“Fine, I’m-”

“You don’t have to be fine.” Enjolras does not respond. "I thought you were dead."

“I had expected to die today. And I did not.”

Combeferre suddenly strikes the bars. The sound of it rings through their cells. It is the first time Enjolras has ever seen his dearest friend strike out in such enraged, petty violence. He holds his expression carefully and sits on the straw with a wince.

“He just…he…they-”

“Apparently, this is the way things work.” Enjolras holds his voice steady. “I was horrendously naive. I should have prepared for this. I did not.”

“Naive, how can you call this…this is beyond-”

Enjolras sighs and that’s enough to cut Combeferre off.

“Enjolras. I have no idea who is still alive, I have no idea if Gisquet will keep his word, I don’t know-”

“Just. My friend,” Enjolras’s voice is pleading. He shuts his eyes. “We may yet die. I apologize that your life was used to…to influence me. And I know you want to _fix_ everything. It is something I’ve always admired about you, even if I’ve never said it. I’ve taken advantage of your immense capacity for care and empathy, I know. But right now, please. Don’t try to take care of me. I don’t deserve it.”

Combeferre settles next to the bars. “Why-”

“This was my battle. I commanded, and I led us into the fires. I had to watch our comrades _rot_ in the summer heat while the soldiers _punished_ me. I know now that I deserved it - they drove home their lesson.”

“I can see there will not be anything I can say now to convince you otherwise. We are broken - but we are alive. And I hope one day soon I can convince you that you did not deserve what was done to you. And that our visions of the future, our friends’ sacrifice was not in vain.” He reaches his hand through the bars. “You cannot hold the light for yourself right now, so I will do it for you.”

Enjolras sighs, feeling wrung out and exhausted, at his failure, the ache in his body, the bruise on his soul. But he takes Combeferre’s hand and squeezes.

 

The screeching of metal wakes him from a shivering doze. Even in June, the damp cells are chilly at night and his shredded clothes offer little protection. He rises shakily.

Gisquet meets him at the bars. There is a grave look on his face. There’s an odd tension in the air, “I am sorry,” He says. “I could not stop it.”

“What do you mean?” Combeferre asks. “Could not stop what?” Gisquet opens the door and two guards seize Enjolras, binding his arms with irons behind his back. They drag him down the hall.

Combeferre catches his arm through the bars. “Wait,” His voice is desperate, grieved. “Wait.”

“He is not to be killed,” Gisquet says. “I swear to you. But there are things even you don’t understand about this world. Powerful people, powerful secrets. Even I cannot stop this.”

Combeferre glances at him, then back to Enjolras. His eyes are shining. “I will find you,” He says insistently. “I promise, no matter what happens, I will find you-”

Enjolras just shakes his head. “Don’t.” And he is dragged further down the hall. He doesn’t look back.

The guards stop at the prison door and pull out a bit of dark cloth. They fasten it tight across his eyes. Only a little light penetrates the fabric.

“Were you lying?” He asks. “What you told my friend - did you lie? Am I to meet my execution now?”

“No,” comes Gisquet’s voice. “You will not. You will live. Try to see it as an opportunity, my friend.” Then he is gone and Enjolras is alone with his silent guards.

They take him in a carriage through the streets, bouncing over the stones. At their destination, he is dragged into a basement, down a flight of stone steps and into a warm room.

“Wait,” An impatient but dignified voice says. “Wait, here I’ll make the introduction and then you’ll bring him on. And gag him, will you, the last thing we need is another outburst like the last one.” The guards shove a rough gag into his mouth. He tries to bite one of their fingers as it passes close to his mouth and gets a slap to the ass in punishment.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” The voice says hurriedly, excited. It’s muffled, through a door or curtain perhaps. “Thank you for your patience. I present to you our final lot for this evening - passionate, but well used. You will see though he is worth the price. The leader of the rue de la Chanvrerie barricade, dear audience.”

The guards drag him forward. He stumbles on the step up to some kind of platform.

There are murmurs and titters. It seems like there is a great many people in the room, though impossible to say how many. There is the dim, flickering light of many candles filtering through the fabric of the blindfold.

The guards take a knife and cut off the remainder of his clothes, scraping at his skin and raising goosebumps in the blade’s wake. They stripe him with the knife until he is naked before the unseen crowd, heat rising in his cheeks. Humiliation, perhaps, but certainly fury. Indignant fury.

“Thin, but with such lean muscles.”

“He looks quite young.”

“Almost girlish with those curls.”

“Shall we start the bidding then? Or do you need to see more?”

There is a roar of laughter, a swell of appeals for ‘more.’

“Give us a taste!”

“It’s cold in this room,” Another jeers. “We can’t see!”

“Now, you know we cannot spoil the goods before our buyer.”

“He looks spoiled already!” Another roar of laughter from the crowds.

“But we can at least give you a show.”

“Yes - let’s see what he can do.”

Someone grabs him, ignoring his cry of protest, but the touch is nearly a caress. Arms wrap around him from behind, grope between his legs as he tries to jerk away. It is no use - his cock fills under the gentle but persistent stimulation.

He would have expected the crowd to jeer, but there is a tense, anticipatory silence instead. He can hear breaths quickening. Voices are murmurs now. The arms release him when he is fully erect, cock twitching, and he stands, alone, with an unknown number of eyes on him.

“Let us begin.”

There are soft murmurs now, the rustling of papers. The thick, heady smell of wine reaches his nose. Through the murmurs, he can hear the crackling of a fire. Eventually, his erection flags. His sore legs begin to weary.

“Sold!” The first voice finally calls. “Sold to the marquis.” The crowd erupts in jeers and groans of disappointment. The owner of the voice pats his hip. “Rejoice, the proceeds will go to rebuilding the buildings you destroyed in your little failed revolution. Take him away.”

 

He is passed from hand to hand, never unbound. The blindfold and gag stay firmly in place as he is pushed and prodded into place. A rough robe settles around his shoulders to cover his nakedness. He feels cool air on his face again, then he’s shoved into a carriage again. The journey is far longer. He tests his bonds but they do not budge. The carriage stops, and gentler hands tug him.

It is quiet where they are - only the sounds of night surround them, the wind in the trees, the chirping of early summer insects. None of the sounds of the city. He is far from home.

The stones are smooth beneath his feet. He nearly trips on the stairs a dozen times, as the floors change from smooth stone, to carpet, to wood, and back to carpet. There is the sound of pouring water and finally someone takes off the blindfold.

Enjolras blinks at the light. He’s in a bathroom, with two others, both wearing identical uniforms. Servants. Neither look at him as they untie his hands, remove the gag.

“Where am I?” He rasps. They do not respond. They just shove him forwards, into the tub. The water is warm and fragrant. “What is going on?” The woman takes a rag and begins to wash him roughly, scrubbed away the grime of the battle, his own blood, the remains of the spend from the dozen or more men who had raped him. When she dips the cloth between his legs, he lets a single cry of pain escape, catching himself on the edge of the tub.

The woman doesn’t let up. She cleans the crusted blood away as humiliated tears spring to his eyes.

When he is scoured clean, the servants help him out of the tub. They dry him roughly and lead him into an opulent bedroom. He is not given clothes and they leave him alone without another word.

The bed is a canopied four-poster, draped in numerous blankets and pillows. There are thick carpets and chaises, the windows are hung with heavy curtains.

Enjolras tries the door. It is locked. He goes to the window. When he pulls the curtain back, there is only the blank wall, unbroken. There are no windows. Just the bedroom, and the bath.

The picture of what has happened to him suddenly clicks together in his mind. He knows what he is now. He sits heavily on the bed, head spinning. It seems like only moments ago that he was talking to Combeferre in their cells. That he was fighting on the barricade. That he was giving a passionate and angry speech. That he was sitting, watching his friends as they drink and laugh in the warmth of the second floor of the Cafe Musain.

He doesn’t cry, not yet. There’s a growing sense that he will, that he’ll mourn for whichever of his friends are dead, for the life that he once knew. For the future that is lost to him.

The door opens.

“Welcome, my love.” A man, dressed well, with long brown hair, tied back with a ribbon. He smiles warmly. “Welcome.”

Enjolras rises, ignoring his own nakedness. “Who are you?”

“We will come to know each other, very, very well, I’m sure.” His new benefactor - owner - the marquis, takes his shoulders and sits him on the edge of the bed. Enjolras is shaking with humiliated rage at his treatment, but the man only smiles.

“You’re safe now, I will never hurt you.” Enjolras barks a laugh. “Not like the others. I’m here to help you, to protect you.”

“To possess me. Rich men like you only want to _own_ things-”

“And I do. I bought you, at auction. Oh, you were so lovely, standing up there, proud even as you were beaten.”

Enjolras thinks for a moment about resisting. But then he thinks of Combeferre with the knife to his throat. They had used his dearest friend once to control him, would they do it again? Worse, if he resists this powerful man and not just Gisquet?

“Yes, I do own you, love. And you’ll have to do some things that I want.”

“Be your whore.”

The marquis only smiles. “But I can give you some things you want as well. What is it that you want?” He asks as he runs featherlight fingers over Enjolras’s abdomen. “Anything you want, my dearest?”

Enjolras stares firmly back. “My freedom.”

The marquis grins. “Alas, my love, that is the one thing I cannot give you.”

“Death then,” He cries, suddenly furious. “Give me my death, if I cannot have my freedom. I was meant to die upon the barricade, let me die than be reduced to this…to this…” Pet. Whore. Coward, to have survived when so many of his brethren had not.

The man just laughs and presses him back against the mattress, straddling his hips and pinning his wrists down. Enjolras would resist - would buck and kick and _make_ this mysterious aristocrat give him his death by force - but along with his fear of retribution for his surviving friends, the fierce ache in his body suddenly returns. The pressure on bruised wrists, the soreness of his throat - serve as a reminder of his place. He finds he no longer has the strength to resist.

The man laps at his neck. “You still don’t understand, do you? You’d really rather death than my bed?” Enjolras looks away. He chuckles. “You will learn, my love. You will learn in time.”

Enjolras just goes limp against the bed as the man kisses his already swollen mouth. He turns his face away and feels his mind retreat somewhere deep inside himself as the man sheds his fine clothes and thrusts—

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first foray into _Les Misérables_ in...holy shit, six years. Very glad to be back, already vaguely thinking of a follow up to this. ;-) 
> 
> Thank you so, so much to @kainosite for such a rich and detailed request letter! I ended up trying to weave a few of the prompts together and I hope I was at least halfway successful. <3


End file.
